


Someday, we'll live our lives out loud

by MonoclePony



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Christmas fic, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Jean makes questionable decisions and thinks too much, M/M, an ex who is not a dick shows up, brief coming out backstory, brief homophobia mention, hurt/comfort?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 18:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/pseuds/MonoclePony
Summary: 'Being in love with Marco was a bit like breathing; it was something he’d always done, just never noticed.'Jean has been friends with Marco for a long time - a very long time. So long, in fact, that he can't actually remember when he stopped being a friend and started being - well, something else. But Jean is notoriously bad at relationships, and Marco is still new to this whole 'dating a guy' thing. As Jean worries over the implications of his new found relationship with his best friend, reassurance comes in the least likely source.A gift for Songbird321 from the JMGE 2018.





	Someday, we'll live our lives out loud

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Songbird321](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songbird321/gifts).



Jean knew as well as anyone that he had a terrible track record with relationships.

It wasn’t that he never loved anyone (he did quite a bit of that, actually) or didn’t want to love anyone (because _god_ did he want to), but he was just unequivocally, beautifully bad at it. It was like all of his friends had been taken aside when they were all twelve and told the secret to not behaving like total idiots when you find a pretty girl or boy, and Jean had missed the memo. There was an etiquette, he decided, some magic words or wand to wave that meant you didn’t end up crying into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream at three in the morning – which was definitely something he had done once or twice.

Love just never seemed to be gentle with him; it hit like a suckerpunch to the chest and left him gasping for breath, for a break, for anything that _wasn’t_ an overwhelming surge of _I love this person and how can I show that without fucking it all up._ It made talking to anyone he found remotely attractive the most excruciating experience imaginable, and he’d broken bones before.

For Jean, the whole dating scene was a minefield. It was a whirl of confusion and questions, of giving and taking and worrying about whether something could be misunderstood.

But in the eye of the storm, the middle of the maelstrom, there was Marco Bodt. He was Jean’s constant, the one who was closer to him than any other person he knew. They had been friends since they were eleven; Jean had punched another boy for making fun of Marco’s braces and floppy 90’s haircut, and Marco had responded by taking Jean to the nurse’s office to bring down the swelling of his black eye. Seventeen years later and the braces were gone, but the Leonardo di Caprio era haircut was still clinging on by a thread. Jean’s temper was still very much in evidence too, especially where Marco was concerned.

But when he thought about it – and _really_ thought about it – Jean couldn’t ever imagine his life without Marco in it. Since that day, they had been joined together by an invisible thread. It may have bent out of shape, frayed at the edges and threatened to break, but it never did. It always held. They always came back to one another, no matter what. And that, for Jean, was when the world made the most sense. If he had Marco next to him, or a phonecall away, he could do anything. He was safe. He would be okay.

That was why watching Marco bring home a girlfriend for the holidays never stung Jean so much as he thought it might. He wasn’t jealous, because he knew Marco deserved a girlfriend. Marco was funny and caring, and knew exactly what to say. He’d done the homework on relationships. It was logical that he would have a girlfriend, and Jean would just have exes. Marco wasn’t going anywhere, and if Jean ever needed him he knew that his best friend would come running – and had, on many occasions.

That was also why, when Marco’s most recent girlfriend dumped him (which was an impossible thought in itself), Jean asked about renting a place together after graduation. He could still remember the way Marco looked at him, eyes red from crying and sniffing like a wounded animal, and asked a simple question.

“Why?”

Huh. Why indeed.

“Because we need each other,” Jean answered, and that seemed a good enough reason for Marco, too. 

Jean wasn’t sure when he and Marco had drifted from the realm of friendship into something more after that. Being in love with Marco was a bit like breathing; it was something he’d always done, just never noticed. There was no falling, because he’d fallen a long time ago. Those broken bones had already healed without him ever realising.

He noticed it more once they had moved in together; little looks they cast each other before bed, both of them longing to step through the same door instead of separate ones, or the casual touches as they moved around their small kitchen to cook together. The kisses on the forehead when Jean had a bad day. The way he played with Marco’s stupid 90’s hair when they watched a film late at night. All of those little moments wove together into something neither of them wanted escape from, and that was okay by Jean. There was one stupid fight about leaving the washing up or not doing the laundry, and that was it. It turned into laughter when they realised how stupid they sounded, then gentle pushes, then a first kiss. He hadn’t even known Marco was into boys, but if that first kiss was anything to go by, Marco was into boys a _lot._ Perhaps he was just into Jean – but he didn’t like to get bogged down with semantics.

It had been a long time coming, the both of them. The years stretched between the playground incident and the present December afternoon, where they stood together arguing with a vendor over Christmas trees. Well, Jean was doing the arguing – Marco was stood to the side pretending he didn’t know him.

“£55?! Are you kidding, £55? What, is it made out of solid gold? Is it the God of the Christmas trees?”

The tree vendor, a squat man with a look in his eye that suggested he’d had this conversation many times, was a yearly nemesis of Jean’s. “It’s £10 per foot. This is a 5 foot tree, so.”

“Where did the other £5 come from?!”

“Commission.”

“Oh come _on._ It’s daylight robbery!” Jean turned to Marco, seeking much-required back up. “Marco, isn’t this daylight robbery?”

Marco was fondling the branches of one of the smaller trees and trying his very best to blend into them. At the sound of his name, though, he looked up. “It’s a nice tree, Jean, but if we can’t afford it we’ll just get a smaller one. This is a business, after all.”

“ _Marco_ ,” Jean complained, as the vendor turned away, “you’re supposed to agree with me.”

Marco raised an eyebrow. The severity of his expression was lost in the midst of his rainbow scarf and matching woolly hat. “And _you_ aren’t supposed to be starting fights over Christmas trees this year. You promised.”

Jean huffed. Okay, he had him there. He _had_ promised. “C’mon, arguing with the Christmas tree guy is like… like a tradition now, y’know?” he defended, shoving his hands in his pockets to stave off the cold.

“It’s a terrible tradition,” Marco replied, but he was smiling. “He must hate seeing you every year.”

“Psh, he loves me.”

“Of course.” Marco rolled his eyes, still smiling. “How could I forget that the world loves Jean Kirschtein no matter what he does?”

“Well, you do.”

The humour drained from Marco’s face like a plug had been pulled. Bouncing insults and quips off one another was a fundamental pillar of their friendship – Marco could get away with saying things that no one else could, simply because he was Marco and Jean liked seeing the spark of mischief ignite in his eye. Now, Jean had managed to stop it dead, and Marco was instead beginning to resemble a very warm strawberry. He was usually pleased when he was able to win a verbal joust, but he actually felt a little… awkward. Should he have brought _them_ up in public, in broad daylight, just like that? Suddenly, the game wasn’t so fun.

Jean took a step back, shaking his head. “I’m-”

“Are you two buying or not?” The vendor was back.

Jean gritted his teeth. Of all the times for him to pop up again…

“We’ll take this one.” Marco pointed to the smaller tree, his face still bright red. “Please.”

Jean wasn’t sure if it was a ‘please’ to the vendor or a plea for him to keep his mouth shut. He shut up anyway. As the vendor rang up the price and bound up the tree, shooting curious look at them, Marco let out a sigh that seemed full of relief. “Sorry,” he said, burying his nose in his scarf. “I just… you said… it surprised me, that’s all.”

“I didn’t think,” Jean admitted.

Marco’s nose wrinkled as he frowned. “No… no, you shouldn’t have to think…m’sorry…”

The thing was, Jean had probably said something similar before, when they were just friends and they would laugh it off. Now the words fell that much heavier, like stones in the water. Jean swallowed painfully and rested a hand tentatively on Marco’s arm. God, he wasn’t even sure if _this_ was socially acceptable anymore; he’d been in so deep for so long, he was doubting himself. “I _should_ think,” he said. “I know this is new for you.”

Marco sighed. “S’new for you, too.”

Jean laughed. “Well, yeah, it is. But I’ve been out for a few years now. Doesn’t bother me so much.”

Marco made an unintelligible noise in the depths of his scarf and leant into Jean’s touch, still blushing. After a moment, as they watched the little man struggle with their tree, Marco gave him a small poke. When Jean looked questioningly at him, he said, “I do, by the way.”

“What?”

A bashful smile quirked Marco’s cheek. “Love you.”

“Oh.” Jean’s only other response was a strained, “okay,” that made Marco laugh before a 4 foot tree was hefted into him by the disgruntled vendor. On the walk home, where they had to hop and struggle and dance beneath a behemoth of a tree, Jean realised he should have said, “I love you,” back, but the words hadn’t come – and by then, it was too late to say them.

Their apartment was on the outskirts of town, in a quiet neighbourhood that Marco loved and had easy commuting routes for Jean. It was technically Marco’s as it was his parents that had helped them with the deposit, but it would never belong to just Marco. It was both of their names on the lease, both of their living spaces smashed into one. It was entirely _their_ apartment, down to the cracks in the wall where Jean had tried to put up a canvas and the squeaky toys dotted around like shrapnel from Marco’s corgi, Rossetti.

The aforementioned dog immediately tried to attack the walking tree coming through the door, and Jean had to perform a jerky pivot to avoid him. “No, Rossi, down!”

The dog completely ignored him and tried his best to bury his face in the base of the tree, snuffling for what Jean could only assume was squirrels. However much Marco tried to convince him, Jean knew that Rossi was not the brightest dog in the park.

Marco plucked the corgi free with a gentle scold and a tap on the nose, which left Jean very much at the tree’s mercy. It started to lean dangerously against him, and a few of the branches snapped against his chest. “Marco Marco Marco help!”

“Such a drama queen,” Marco muttered from somewhere to his right. Some of the weight pressing down on him lifted, and he knew that Marco was carrying most of it. “You should go to the gym some time.”

“My body is a temple, Marco, and I hate to worship at the false idol that is exercise.”

“Well your temple has the upper body strength of a nine year old.”

“If I could see you, I would smack you.”

“Fighting words, coming from someone losing a fight with a pine tree.”

They managed to wrangle the tree into a corner, pushing and shoving and unloading a barrage of pine needles in their wake. Once it was potted and in position, however, Jean had to admit that it looked pretty good. “Even though it nearly killed me, this is one good looking tree,” he mused.

Marco hooked an arm around his shoulder and drew him in close, bumping their hips together as he beamed. “What can I say? I have a good eye for trees.”

“That’s a very seasonal superpower, Marco Bodt.”

“My other superpower is making grumpy guys with undercuts smile,” he added, turning his head to nuzzle into the crook of Jean’s neck.

Though he tried his very best, Jean couldn’t help the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth. Marco had a little bit of stubble where he’d missed shaving that morning, and the soft scratch of it against his skin sent tingles rippling through him like he was some sort of giddy teenager on a ferris wheel. Suppressing a giggle (as he didn’t want to turn into a _complete_ child), Jean turned his head and planted a gentle, chaste kiss on Marco’s cheek. That was safe. Normal. Ish. Ugh. He didn’t know. “You would make a terrible X – Man,” he commented, “with your power to pick out the best Christmas trees and cheering up a very small amount of the general population.”

Marco’s laugh sounded warm, content. “I’ll bear that in mind. Time to decorate, do you think?”

Jean pulled away, shaking his head as he shed his coat. “Not before we make hot chocolate and put on cheesy Christmas music.”

Marco smiled his ‘I can’t believe you’re going to make me do this’ smile – one he often used around Jean, it had to be said – but Jean was in the kitchen and boiling up the milk before he could complain. It was another tradition of theirs; in order to decorate a tree correctly, one had to have a mug of hot chocolate in one hand at all times and the dulcet tones of George Michael blasting through one’s speakers proclaiming that, this year, he really would give his heart to someone special. The moment the first lines of the song came through the speakers, the agonised groan of Marco from the living room sent Jean into cruel snickering.

As he added the chocolate powder to the warm milk and began to mix it around, he caught himself thinking about the Christmases before. Because that’s how they would have to define them now, the times Before and the times After, the years all falling into those categories like neatly filed records. He had spent a grand total of four Christmases with Marco, and he was determined that this one was going to be The One. The one they would reminisce about years later, the First One that the others would be based around but never hope to top. He knew he was putting a lot of pressure on it, but he really wanted it to be something special. He didn’t have much money since most of it was siphoned out into rent and bills and repaying long-overdue loans, but that didn’t matter. He just wanted to make sure everything _worked_. He wanted Marco to be happy.

Once the hot chocolate was made and steam was rising from their cups, Jean went back into their living room to find Marco cross-legged on the floor and attempting to untangle a mass of Christmas lights. Rossetti was watching him from his spot on the sofa, ears pricked, but the stern looks Marco kept sending him were enough to stop him getting too curious. He accepted the hot chocolate, however, with a warm smile. “You put in marshmallows,” he said.

Jean shrugged. “A hot chocolate is never a hot chocolate without marshmallows. It’s a well-known fact.” He sat down beside him, their knees knocking together as he picked up the other end of Christmas lights. “This… uh… looks pretty tangled.”

“Yeah.” Marco frowned. “We never learn to pack it away properly.”

“You’d think we would by now,” Jean agreed. He picked away at the knots delicately, trying his best not to pull any of the wiring inside, whilst Marco continued to work on the other end.

They lapsed into a companionable silence, the only noise the jingling melody of another Christmas song on Jean’s playlist and the occasional huff from Rossetti. Jean sensed Marco stealing glances at him, and wondered if he was thinking the same thing he was – that a lot had changed since the last time they were doing this. He wondered if Marco was tracing the line of his jaw with his eyes, or maybe he was lingering on the little scar on his nose he’d gotten from a fistfight when they were younger. He hoped Marco liked what he saw. He hoped it germinated the seed of something warm inside him, something that would only grow and spread and bloom the way it had with him. Because there was still some part of him, small and obnoxious, that wondered why on _earth_ Marco decided to kiss him that day.

When the music died away, he met Marco’s gaze. His friend turned a little pink at being caught out, but didn’t look away. “Do you think last year’s Marco would believe you if you told him we were seeing each other?” he asked, not being able to help himself.

Marco looked thoughtful for a moment. “I think… he would be a little surprised, but he’d get it.”

“Oh?”

Marco’s gaze returned to the particularly stubborn tangle in his hand, his brow furrowing as he continued, “What about you? Did you think we’d be a…well, you know.”

“A ‘we’?” Jean finished for him. Marco nodded, his eyes still on the knotted lights. “I dunno, honestly. I think it just sort of… happened, right? No massive epiphany, no sweeping gesture. We’re just… us, but upgraded.”

Marco snorted out a laugh. “We’re Jean and Marco 2.0?”

“Exactly. I guess… I guess it was meant to happen, one way or another.”

Marco let out a soft ‘aha’ of triumph as he successfully detangled his end of lights. He then gave Jean a small grin. “Are you talking about fate?”

Jean shrugged, feeling the itch of self-consciousness creeping around him. “I guess I do mean fate, yeah. Is that corny?”

“ _So_ corny.” Marco put the Christmas lights down carefully on the floor and leant in to rest his head on Jean’s shoulder. “But it’s okay. I like corny.”

Jean turned his head to kiss Marco’s forehead, dropping the lights in his lap to brush a bit of hair away from his face. Marco moved with it, tilting his head to reach his lips – and after a moment of hesitation, he did exactly that. Jean kissed him back gently, carefully, giving a little and then drawing away in case it was too much, too fast. He’d kissed a fair few people in his time, boys and girls, but with Marco it felt like he was relearning all the rules. Not too hard, Marco might think he was asking for something more. Not too soft, Marco might worry he didn’t want it.

Jean’s thoughts on kissing quickly vanished when Marco cupped his face in his hand and drew him in closer. Their noses bumped together. Jean swore but Marco just laughed, breathless and giddy, and then they were kissing again. Soon, the Christmas lights were forgotten on the floor. So was the tree. And the decorating. Jean didn’t care about all that, not at that moment. They could make a naked Christmas tree work, it was fine – so long as Marco didn’t stop kissing him.

He wasn’t used to being the shy one, the one that overthought things; but Marco was the one guiding him, brushing their lips together like the wings of small birds and pausing only for breath. When he shifted, moving so he was straddling Jean’s waist, the warmth in Jean’s chest roared into a destructive inferno that he had to fight down. It came through in breathless little gasps instead, a tightened grip on Marco’s shirt, more force to the kisses. The satisfied little hums Marco made in the base of his throat only encouraged Jean’s hands under the intruding clothes, skimming over his waist to his spine and down again.

God, Jean was never going to get over this. There was just no way.

Just before he pulled away and suggested they move to somewhere that wasn’t the living room floor full of Christmas decorations and an inquisitive corgi, something vibrated in the space between them. He broke their kiss and mumbled, “I know I’m good but I’m not _that_ good.”

Marco still had his eyes shut, his breath coming in laboured, heavy pants. He laughed anyway. “Ugh, shut _up_.”

Jean glanced down to the jeans pocket where Marco’s phone was very obviously ringing. “Are you going to get that?”

Marco didn’t answer right away. He pressed their heads together, his eyes still tightly shut, and when Jean opened his mouth to ask again he kissed him, long and deep and hungry.

It took every ounce of Jean’s willpower to pull away and motion to his pocket. “Go on. Answer it. Might be important.”

Marco gave a cynical grunt but took out his phone to look at the caller id. His entire being seemed to freeze as he saw the word printed onto the screen, blaring out angrily. He answered. “Mum!”

He untangled himself from Jean and stood up, the phone stuck to his ear as he slipped into a languid Italian. The words ebbed and flowed like a tide, and though Jean had always wanted to learn he had never been able to capture the soul of the language the way Marco did. He listened to Marco talk anyway, turning back to the Christmas lights and trying to push away the empty feeling that now sat heavily on his shoulders. Marco never stayed close to him when his mother called. It was like he was afraid that she would be able to somehow see through the phone into his world. _Their_ world.

Jean started to arrange the ornaments, trying to ignore how strained Marco’s voice sounded. He’d met Marco’s mother hundreds of times. She knew him about as much as she knew Marco. She liked him – he _hoped_. He certainly liked her. Every time she called, however, Marco jumped as if he was being prepped for a firing line.

He was by the tree, attempting to arrange the lights from the bottom and weave them through the thick branches to the top, when he heard his name.

“Madre… Jean e io…”

He turned to look at Marco, and found that he was staring right at him. He knew that wide-eyed look anywhere. He knew what Marco was trying to do.

They stared at each other for a moment, Jean with hope and Marco with fear, as his mother’s voice continued to crackle and spit from his phone. Marco gulped. Jean nodded. “It’s okay,” he whispered, taking a step closer. “It’s okay, I’m here, you can do it.”

Marco bit his lip. The hand holding the phone was shaking. “N-Non…” He shook his head, and turned away. “Non è importante, Madre.”

Now, Jean didn’t know any Italian but he could get the jist of what _that_ had been. He sighed, offered Marco a weak smile and moved back to the tree. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell his mother. Of course he couldn’t. He found the star in the bottom of the box, the one they would put at the top of the tree, and passed it from hand to hand as he scoped out the topmost boughs. He tried not to think about it. Tried to justify it. Tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, that Marco would tell his mother in his own time – but when he dragged a chair over to the tree and put the star on the very top, he felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

When Marco got off the phone he returned sheepishly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders drawn up to his ears despite how warm the room was. “Sorry,” he said. “She just wanted to know arrangements. For Christmas, you know.”

“Did you tell her we were spending it together this year?” Jean asked. He tried to keep the wobble out of his voice, but he wasn’t sure he managed it.

Marco hesitated. “I told her I was busy, but we could meet up with her on the 23rd,” he answered. He frowned at the tree. “You put the star on the top.”

Jean bit his lip. “Yeah.”

“I always do that.”

Jean shrugged. “Well. You were busy, so.”

When he brushed past him into the kitchen for more hot chocolate, the heat that had been surrounding them felt like it had been doused. Jean definitely ignored the hurt look in Marco’s eye when he did it, too.

* * *

That evening found Jean in a bar with his two friends, sufficiently Marco-less. Sasha Braus and Connie Springer were also childhood friends of his, and the two most stubbornly clinging onto his company years afterwards – aside, of course, from Marco. Their flat was downtown, an easy train ride from his own place, and when they had messaged him asking to meet before the holidays were in full swing, he’d taken the bait. He’d left Marco in the apartment with Rossetti and taken the late train. Marco hadn’t seemed bothered when he’d insinuated he would be staying out until the morning, which somehow annoyed Jean more.

Naturally, the first thing he did upon meeting with Sasha and Connie was spill his guts like some awkward teenager. They weren’t necessarily the best agony aunt and uncle, but Jean tended to take what he could get.

“So let me get this as straight as I possibly can,” Sasha began, once he had finished explaining.

“Which is hard, considering it’s Jean,” Connie quipped.

Jean shot him a sour look, but Sasha continued, “Marco gets a phone call from his mum, starts speaking Italian and instead of admitting you’re bumping uglies tells her that you and him don’t matter?” 

“Something like that. I didn’t understand all of it, though.”

Connie let out a low whistle. “Shit, that’s gotta sting, mate.”

Jean gave him another equally sour look.

“Well, yeah,” Sasha said, frowning, “but you don’t know for sure, do you? You’re not a fluent linguist.”

He stared at the bottom of his glass and wondered, if he stared hard enough, the barman would take pity on him. “I think it was pretty obvious, Sash’.”

“Well…”

Jean caught the tail end of a look Connie shot Sasha, and straightened up. “What?”

Sasha shook her head, but Connie didn’t heed her warning. “I just think you should cut him some slack. Marco’s mum would be fine with it, sure, but he saw what happened with you. It’s bound to spook him a bit.”

Ah. That explained the frantic gesturing Sasha was doing to try to shut Connie up. He brought up the Coming Out Story. Jean knocked his glass on the bar and ordered another drink – he was going to need it. “Yeah, well. That happened a long time ago,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter how long ago it was,” Connie said, shaking his head. “Marco was _there._ Right in the middle of it.”

“Have you… I mean, do you speak about it with your parents at all?” Sasha asked.

Jean leaned back from the bar and knocked back the drink he’d been offered with a wince. “You _know_ I don’t. They like to pretend it never happened.” He frowned. “Dad’s a bit better than he was, but Mum still thinks I’ll grow out of it. Anyway,” he added, when he saw the sympathy beginning to appear on his friend’s faces, “that doesn’t matter. Do you really think that scared Marco off?”

“Undoubtedly!” Connie said, with a little too much enthusiasm for Jean’s liking.

He sunk back onto the bar. Great. It made a lot of sense, really; Marco had been the one he’d gone to after the fireworks had died down and his mother had stopped crying for long enough to tell him to get out. There had been friends that were closer, friends that would have understood if he ended up on their doorstep at 11 at night – but it had been Marco he’d gone to. It was always Marco.

“So what do I do?” he asked.

Connie shrugged. “Get better parents?”

Jean was about to find something to throw at him when Sasha spoke up. “I guess it’s also the fact that, well… Marco isn’t the first person you’d think would be with another guy.”

Jean frowned. “How do you mean?”

“I mean…um…” Sasha took a sip of her brightly coloured cocktail and said, delicately, “don’t take this the wrong way, but Marco’s always seemed like… like the golden boy, you know? He’s the one in the films who’d get the prettiest girl and let her borrow his jacket if she got cold. He’s the Boy Next Door, the cliché lead of a chick flick. I think everyone just expected him to get married and settle down with a… well, with a girl. Maybe his mum feels the same.”

Sasha’s words hit Jean like a punch to the gut. Because she was right. Marco was the typical Hallmark Holiday guy; he was kind, he was sweet, he was comforting. He was everything that worked in a boyfriend, and it was why he’d had such a string of equally wonderful girlfriends. Marco was the sort of person that could have the beautiful blonde wife, the two adorable children and the big golden retriever, in a house that was only available in the realm of the film industry. Instead, he had a two bedroom flat in the city, a corgi that didn’t know what the word ‘stay’ meant – and Jean. Whatever _Jean_ was.

Something in his expression made Connie add, “b-but we’re not saying he _should_ be with a girl! It’s great you two are together, honestly. I can’t believe it took as long as it did, you’ve clearly wanted on that since he broke up with Mina.”

Jean attempted a smile, but even he wasn’t convinced by it. Connie and Sasha didn’t know. They didn’t see the way Marco was with him, gentler somehow than the rest of the world. They didn’t know that he left Jean notes sometimes, reminding him to have a good day and keep smiling like the walking encouragement that he was. They never heard Jean pad into Marco’s bedroom in the middle of the night because he had a nightmare and didn’t know what to do about it, and Marco just peeled back his covers and let him get in. They were also never going to find out that he hadn’t even slept with Marco yet, because Marco was nervous and Jean didn’t want to push him. There was a lot more to it than just sex – or was there?

Jean might have read things wrong; what if Marco was just with him to humour him, or because he was afraid of disappointing him. But if that was true, why would he have said ‘I love you’? And _why_ hadn’t Jean said it back?

They moved from one bar to the next, and by the third move Jean was on the tipping point between tipsy and drunk. His thoughts knocked into one another like little old men until he leant on the bar to keep them balanced. As his body seemed to thrum happily in time to the music pumping out of the obnoxious speakers, he remembered how this was how most of his Friday nights would start out. But, above the noise of the speakers and Connie’s hooting and hollering in his ear, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be there anymore. The whole thing felt stale, a worn out place that he had walked through and danced on and drank from for so long that it made him ill to think of it. Squinting through the gloom of the bar, he could make out Sasha flirting her way to the front of the line for drinks.

“I love this song!” Connie shouted in his ear.

Jean winced. Actually, he was more partial to the stupid Pogues and Swinging Stevens playlist he’d made back home. He hoped Marco hadn’t finished decorating the flat without him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone watching him. Past experience had trained him to be very good at using his peripheral vision, and when the person moved he did too. He turned, his eyes glancing off a few heads and shoulders until they settled on the perpetrator. His eyes narrowed. “Marlow?” he questioned.

The very boy grinned and shouldered his way through the throng of people. His hair was cut shorter than it had been the last time he’d seen him; the undercut he’d tried to copy off Jean was more of a half shaved head now, with one of his ears pink and tender with new piercings. The tattoo of a unicorn galloping down his arm was the same, as was the twisted smile that was turning heads as he moved towards him.

“Jean!” He raised a hand in greeting. “How’s it been? It’s been too long!”

Jean raised his glass in reply. “God… Jesus, yeah, it’s been months. What happened to you, fell off the face of the planet?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” With one elegant motion, Marlow knocked his beer bottle against Jean’s glass and pulled up a bar stool. “Went travelling. Europe. Ended up somewhere near Budapest, it’s a hell of a place.”

Jean blinked. “Wow, that’s… something.”

He shrugged. “Well, it only took upwards of 1000 miles for me to get over you, so I reckon it was worth the trip.”

Jean winced. “Yeah, I’m… sorry about that.” God, he was drunk and the words still didn’t feel genuine. He was such a piece of work.

“Oh, don’t be. You were right, both of us know you suck at relationships.” Marlow gave an encouraging smile and took a gulp of his beer. “Like I said. Over it. Met someone in Slovakia, we’re gonna make a go of it long distance for a while until he flies over here for work in the new year.”

“You moved on fast for someone who wasn’t sure they’d ever get over me,” Jean pointed out.

Marlow’s smile grew crooked. “So did you, if the rumours are true.” Jean promptly shut up. He could feel his face burning hot, even in the sticky heat of the bar as it filled with customers. Was it really such big news? Was it spreading around that Jean Kirschtein, fuck up extraordinaire, was now ready to do what he never thought possible?

“So… Marco Bodt, huh?” Marlow asked, jerking him back into the present.

“I don’t know what it is,” Jean blurted out. “I don’t… don’t think he knows, either.” He looked around for help, but Connie had melted into the background, no doubt off to rescue Sasha from a fight she was trying to start. He was on his own. With an ex. Perfect.

To his surprise, Marlow laughed. “It doesn’t matter what it is, it’s _something._ Good for you, mate, he’s a nice guy – but you definitely took your time. I was convinced he was straight for ages.”

Jean took another gulp of his drink, and relished the crackling burn it sent down his throat. “Yeah. You and everyone else in this city, apparently.”

“Maybe you just turn people,” Marlow suggested. “You might have a magic d-”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Jean muttered, swirling around the remainder of his drink. This night was getting weirder and weirder. The stale feeling returned, the one that reminded him of what he could be doing back at the flat with Marco. They could be decorating the house, ruining dinner, curling up on the sofa watching some artsy film Marco adored – and they would be doing it together. That didn’t seem like half a bad way to spend an evening. _Wow_ , Jean thought as he drained his glass, _he really was domesticated._

“Listen, let me get one for you,” Marlow offered, nudging his empty glass away to the waiting barman. “Old times’ sake.”

Jean blinked, the fog behind his eyes clearing. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

Marlow ordered the same again for the both of them. “So, for someone who’s got a super nice boyfriend-”

“I don’t know if he’s my boyfriend,” Jean interjected.

“-you’re walking around with a face like a slapped arse,” Marlow finished. He wasn’t smiling this time though; he was frowning, and actually looked a little concerned. “Can’t believe I’m asking this, but do you want to talk about it?”

Jean sighed. God, talking about his current relationship with Marlow of all people felt like the most messed up thing in the world. He ran a hand through his hair with a grimace, pushing down the feeling of displacement that was drifting around in his gut, and answered, “I don’t know,” like he was some child lost in a crowded street. When Marlow said nothing, he continued, “It’s… it’s the easiest thing in the world, with Marco, but… it feels like it should be harder. Like there’s something I’m missing, and it’s gonna come out and bite me if I’m not careful. Like… ugh.” He sighed again. “Like he couldn’t tell his mum that we were together and it… it pissed me off. I just don’t know what he wants from me. It just makes no sense. I’ve never gotten like that with anyone else, I’m just _their boyfriend_ , but…”

“But this is Marco we’re talking about.” When Jean looked up, confused, Marlow gave him a small smile. “Come on, Jean. Don’t you remember why we broke up?”

He hesitated. “Wasn’t it because we’d been doing _too_ well and I can’t ever afford to be happy?”

“Well, Merry Christmas to you too, you ray of sunshine.” Marlow elbowed him playfully. “No, idiot, it was because I felt like I was in the way of something.”

Jean bristled at the weight to Marlow’s words. “What the fuck, I never cheated on you. I might be shit at relationships but I’m not a monster.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Marlow shook his head with a wry laugh. “God, you really are an idiot. When we were together, your eyes were never on me. They were always out of focus, always angled over my shoulder.” He levelled his gaze with him, and Jean could swear his olive eyes sparked with something. “You were always looking at that bloody roommate of yours.”

Jean just stared at him. He’d never even noticed, but now… now he remembered. He’d never brought Marlow home if he knew Marco was around, and if he did it was always to his room. If Marco ever tried to join them when they were watching a movie or playing a game Jean would never say no – but he never remembered the film or won a single game. There had been sparks with Marlow, sure, but that warm feeling in his stomach he felt when he was with Marco, even when they’d just been friends? That was new. That was… pretty comfortable, truth be told.

Marlow was smiling at him as though he could read his mind. “Aha, so you _do_ remember,” he said. “See, that was why I wasn’t surprised when you ended it. It hurt, but I get it.” He shrugged, the smile still playing across his face. “It’s always been Marco. And, uh, I don’t know if you’re dense or just really bad at reading people, but Marco’s absolutely besotted with you, too. And not in the ‘I want a casual relationship that could ruin my friendship’ way. In the ‘I want to settle down and get married and have your babies if it was biologically possible’ kind of way.”

Those, apparently, were the words Jean had been looking for, walking from bar to bar with Connie and Sasha and trying to pretend he was having a good time. He’d wanted the words that would get him out of the place, that would make him grab his coat and run for the nearest train straight back to his small flat with the stupid corgi and Marco, who might have been someone fit for a Hallmark Holiday card but he was _his_ Hallmark Holiday card, damnit, and nothing was going to change that- Marlow was still grinning at him.

“What are you smirking at?” he asked, his expression immediately souring.

Marlow shook his head, still grinning. “I guess I’m just wondering why you’re sat here talking to me when there’s clearly somewhere else you’d rather be.”

Jean eyed his glass, half-empty and abandoned on the bar. “Because… because it’s so simple,” he answered. “And simple isn’t… isn’t as easy as I thought. It’s pretty scary, actually.”

“Of course it is,” Marlow agreed, taking another swig from his bottle. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t work on it. Besides, it’s _Marco_ for God’s sake – how scary can it be?”

Jean hesitated, but clearly something touched a nerve in Marlow as he grabbed the glass Jean had been nursing and knocked it back in a single gulp.

Jean gawped at him. “Hey, what the fu-!”

“I bought it, I can drink it,” Marlow said matter-of-factly. “So now you have no excuse. Go home to your boy, Jean. And for God’s sake, tell him you love him before you combust.”

Jean got off his barstool. He grabbed his coat. His pulse was roaring in his ears and his stomach had erupted into a pit of butterflies, but he pushed away all of it. He looked back at Marlow just before he left, hesitating, and Marlow rolled his eyes. “Go, you idiot, before I have to shove you out of here.”

So he left. More than that, actually, he ran. And sure, it was because the last train back to the flat was going to be departing in half the time it would take for him to get to the station and sure, he bumped into people and narrowly avoided traffic to reach it in time, but he liked to think there was some sort of romantic gesture behind that. It was just a shame Marco would never see it – he’d probably like to know that Jean was almost knocked down by a bright yellow Mini. He’d think it was hilarious, the bastard. The bastard that he – was absolutely, one hundred percent, head over heels in love with. Huh.

Because Marlow had been right. Jean had known that he’d loved Marco, of course he had, but he’d never realised quite how much. They may have stumbled into their relationship with clumsy kisses and awkward fumbles in their living room, but that didn’t make it any less of a relationship. Jean was used to explosive, to firecrackers and battleships. But everything about being with Marco was warm and welcoming. It felt like coming home, like a good book on a winter’s evening or a roaring hearth. It burnt him, sure – just not in the same way.

Jean reached the train just in time, elbowing a drunken businesswoman out of the way and brandishing his ticket to the half-asleep operator. Only once he’d taken a seat and got his breath back did he pull out his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up with unread messages. Some from Connie asking where he was, one from Sasha which was definitely inappropriate to read on public transport – and there were some from Marco. There were four, to be exact.

Jean opened them with his stomach squirming.

**[Marco, sent: 23:44]**  
_\- Are you really out all night?_  
_\- I said I was fine with it but maybe I’m not…_  
 _\- Sorry. Maybe I miss you_  
 _\- Maybe I want you to come home_

Jean typed back with shaking fingers, hitting the send button a little too early and having to rectify it in the next message.

**[You, sent: 23:44]**  
_\- I’m on my way home sweetheart_  
_\- I’m an idiot_  
 _\- Please don’t lock the door_

He didn’t know what had compelled him to use a pet name. Maybe he was more drunk than he’d thought. The response was immediate:

**[Marco, sent: 23:45]  
** _\- SWEETHEART_

Jean couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of him. He didn’t reply. He just rode the train, his body screaming at him for doing anything that resembled exercise without warning it first, and waited for the right stop. When it came up, he got out of the train and started to run again – who cared, he was already a mess – and didn’t stop until he reached the door of their flat. He actually didn’t have much of a choice; after the sudden sprint, he felt like he was hyperventilating just a little bit. He was leaning on their door to get his breath back when it swung open unexpectedly. With a rather unmanly shriek of terror, he fell straight into the arms of the person on the other side of the door.

“Woah, hey, steady!”

Marco, amid Rossetti’s alarmed barking.

“What are you doing, leaning on the door like that?” he chided gently, half-dragging him into the flat and kicking the door shut behind them with a foot. “How much did you drink?”

“Not… that… much,” Jean panted, trying to wrest himself free of Marco’s grip. Rossetti settled the moment he heard his voice, and Jean could just about see the small shape curl back up and huff bad-temperedly. “I… just… ran… from the… bar…”

“You ran?! Why?”

“Because…” Jean looked up at him – and immediately untangled himself from Marco’s arms. Something was clearly wrong. Tissues were littering the floor of the living room, and Marco’s eyes were red and puffy. Jean could even see the tear tracks down his face, almost silver in the weak light from the hallway. “Marco…”

“M’fine.” He scrubbed at his eyes weakly. “Just… It’s A Wonderful Life was on, and…”

“We always watch that together,” Jean finished. “I remember.” He wasn’t sure if Marco was actually crying at the film, or at the fact they’d broken another of their traditions – either option made him feel awful.

Marco nodded. “Why did you come home early?” he asked, snatching up a tissue to sniffle into. He was trying so hard to make it light, Jean realised. He was almost strained in how casual he was trying to make it, how he was trying to hold his emotion in check. God, he was an idiot, how could he have thought that Marco didn’t want this as much as he did?

“I realised I’d forgotten something important,” he answered, as they walked into the living room together.

“Oh?” There it was again. The cheery voice. The one he reserved for his friends. Light, breezy, unaffected.

Jean bit his lip. “Can you turn around?”

Marco turned obediently, despite the slightly alarmed look in his eyes. Jean didn’t think. He didn’t want to do that right now. Instead he stepped into the space left between them and pressed his lips to Marco’s, lifting his arms up to wrap them around his neck.

Marco sank into the kiss almost immediately, a sigh reverberating through the both of them. Marco’s lips were soft and yielding against his own, and tasted a little like the salt from his tears, but that just made Jean kiss him all the more. Because he had to know. He _had_ to.

When he pulled away, he was breathless. “I forgot to say that… that I love you.” Marco’s eyes widened. “I… I love you a hell of a lot, actually. And I want this to be a real thing, what we have. And it’s okay,” he continued when Marco opened his mouth, “if you’re not ready to say that you love me back in public, or hold my hand in a crowd, or tell your mum we’re dating. I’ll wait. Until you’re ready. This is… this is new for me too. I’ve never dated someone that I’ve known for so long that it feels wrong not being without them.”

Marco didn’t say anything for a while. Jean waited, the doubt creeping back into his mind the longer the silence stretched out. The drink had made him brave, made him stupid, and maybe this was too much to blurt out just before Christmas, when they hadn’t even been together for that long. Flashbacks to nights crying into family sized packs of food came back to him with a nasty jolt, and before he could apologise Marco let out a little sob and drew him back into his arms. The smell of Marco assaulted his nose; a smell of pine trees, cinnamon and baking that Jean could never get enough of. When Marco spoke, his words wobbled on thin legs. “J-Jean, I’ve loved you since I was sixteen.”

_Sixteen._ The number tolled like a bell in Jean’s head. That was before Mina. Before any of the other girls. The year that he’d come out. He looked up at him, eyes prickling with the emotion he was trying to hold back. “You… you loved me way back then?”

Marco nodded somewhat wretchedly, his hair falling in front of his face as he did. “Y-yeah. I just didn’t know how to talk about it. And I know you were mad about when Mum called and I didn’t tell her, but I did that because if I had, I wouldn’t hear the end of it. She’s known I like you for ages, and she’d probably scream the place down and get another noise complaint from the neighbours. Besides…” he turned a little pink, “I wanted her to hear it face to face.”

“Oh,” was all Jean could say. “Right. I, uh, am an idiot, apparently.”

Marco laughed. “Maybe a little bit, yeah. But… but me wanting this for so long, doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy. You’re right, it’s still a little strange for me and I need to take things in baby steps, but… but I’m a fast learner. I hope,” he added, a little doubtfully.

Jean gnawed on his lip again, casting a glance up at Marco’s earnest face. “I have a lot to learn too.”

Marco smiled. “That’s okay. We can figure it out together.”

Jean grinned. “Sounds like a deal to me.” He kissed him again, and this time he didn’t break it. He heard the ending chorus of Auld Lang Syne playing over the TV, and the voice of Jimmy Stewart’s sickly sweet daughter talking about an angel getting his wings when the bells rang, but he didn’t pay attention to that. All he could focus on was Marco, and his content, soft little sighs that broke through every cinnamon-tinted kiss.

_Marlow was right,_ Jean thought, as they left the film playing to Rossetti and slipped into Marco’s bedroom together, _it had always been Marco._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, and happy holidays everyone!
> 
> I have a...  
> Twitter: @purple_tealeaf  
> Tumblr: attackonmyponderland.tumblr.com


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